Iron Witch
by Pandoras-Closet
Summary: A crossover idea that literally leapt into my head while making dinner the other night.


Hermione Granger-Weasley was dying.

One week previous a mechanical assassin, marked with the symbol of the Death Eaters, a notorious organization of Dark Wizards and Witches, had stabbed her in the arm with a poison extracted from the Salfransassa root. Normally fatal within twenty-four hours, the lethal effects could be held off for a week or so by a combination of drugs and Charms, but in the end, the victim still died in a most painful fashion as the poison attacked and destroyed the heart.

"I can't let you do this, Hermione," Harry Potter insisted, fingering his Auror's badge. "Its . . . illegal in every sense of the word."

"Saving my own life is illegal?" Hermione asked, her fingers moving as wand and soldering iron worked together in harmony.

"No, but this . . . thing you're building is!" Harry waved a hand at the next table.

Hermione shook her head. "Then arrest me afterwards, Harry. I did not spend seven years fighting Voldemort only to be done in later on by a coward with an Articifer's skills."

"You don't even know where to look."

"Actually, I do."

"Where then, you crazy bint?" Harry demanded. Few people could get away with speaking to Hermione so, but she, her husband Ron (currently at the house of his parents with their daughter Rose), and Harry were bound together by a bond of shared experiences. A bond that went deeper, and was far stronger than any bond of blood. It was because of that bond that Hermione had sent Ron and their daughter away, to spare them additional grief if she failed. Harry had been away in Bulgaria, or so Hermione had thought, but he had turned up shortly after she'd said goodbye to her family.

"Honestly, Harry, you're --" Hermione broke off, breath coming in short gasps, eyes wide. Wand and iron clattered to the floor as she fumbled for the bottle of pills, tossing back several of them before sinking onto a stool, one hand pressed to her chest. "God!"

"Hermione?" Harry asked, frightened. He pressed his fingers to her throat. Her pulse was racing, her skin ashen gray. "Hermione?" he asked again, his voice a soft whisper.

"Harry," she said, looking at him. "It's the final stages. I don't . . ." she clenched her fingers into her skin, teeth gritted. "Minutes left. If that."

Harry removed his badge and slid it across the room. His duty as an Auror or saving his best friend. It wasn't much of a choice. "Tell me what you need me to do"  
They exchanged a smile.

**Two Days later . . .**

The second youngest of seven children, Ron Weasley knew how to throw a punch and he exercised that knowledge by leaving a fair sized bruise on Harry's arm.  
"She died?" Ron demanded.

"Almost died, Ronald," Hermione corrected from the easy chair. "But the procedure was a success." She removed her jumper to reveal that under the tank top she had on, the left side of her chest was covered with glowing blue runes surrounding circuitry. Tattoos spelling out more runes were mixed in with the glowing ones.

"Oh, a success, is it?" Ron hollered. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"No, because as far as anyone knows, I'm dead." Hermione's tone was grim and she got up from her armchair and staggered towards the basement. "Which brings us to phase two."

"Phase two. Oh thank God, she has a phase two!" Ron exclaimed, even as he helped his wife down the stairs. "I feel so much better now that I know there's a phase two!"

Harry smothered a grin as he followed them down.

In the middle of the basement, gleaming in the colors of Gryffindor Scarlet and Gold, was phase two.

"This is phase two?" Ron gasped.

"Quite," Hermione replied simply and turned to Harry. "And yes, you can tell Ginny. I'm going to need her help with flying anyway."

"It flies? Ron shouted. Hermione nodded. "I need a drink," Ron groaned.

Hermione tossed her jumper aside. "Harry, while Ron is being a useless lump, help me with this would you?"

Sure, Hermione," Harry said, and reached for the tool box.

Whoever had sent that mechanical bug, whoever had made this attempt, had overlooked or been unaware of three key facts about their target:

Hermione Granger-Weasley might work to rehabilitate Magical Creatures, but she was also the cleverest Witch Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had seen in over a century.

She was a Muggleborn, with an understanding of Muggle machines and ways.

Most importantly, she was a Gryffindor, the warrior house, and did not roll over and accept anything. Including death.

As the last pieces slotted into place, Ron came over and laid his hands on Hermione's shoulders. "Hermione, I . . ."

"I know." She kissed him and then rested her forehead against his. "You have some dirt on your nose," she said softly and brushed his nose with her metal clad fingertip. "Right there." They smiled and then she straightened. "The helmet, Harry." Harry placed it into her hands and she looked at it for a moment.

"Hermione is dead," she said, and pulled on the helmet, the eye slits glowing blue. "Long live the Iron Witch."


End file.
